


hiding in the hills

by princerai



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Thor (Movies)
Genre: A Ridiculous Amount of Iced Tea, Established Relationship, Family Loss, Gen, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, Human AU, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Nature, Nightmares, Odin (Marvel)'s A+ Parenting, Suicide, summer home
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2019-05-09 13:04:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14716592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princerai/pseuds/princerai
Summary: Thor doesn't think he can stand one more moment around his father. He expects him to be better, and Thor doesn't know if he's ever going to get better.Isolation, he knows, isn't the best solution. But he'll make it work for him.(Loki has other plans.)





	1. sticky sweet

**Author's Note:**

> so yeah uh i've had this idea kicking about in my head for a few days now  
> i've decided to unleash some of my own issues on the boys today  
> this is meant to eventually become a horror story.
> 
> brief trigger warning here for suicide being alluded to throughout the story, and for self harm descriptions sprinkled throughout. just one in specific in this chapter.

Thor is used to his dad being something of a useless prick when it comes to matters of the brain.

(he's the one that took the 'man up' approach when -

when everything went to shit. when thor could smell blood in the bathroom at two am, saw the stains on the tile, stark red bright against brilliant white like obsessive white like searing upon the eyes white-

when he heard the scrape of blade on skin from the next bedroom

and his dad saw 

and only thought to say to his brother, "be strong, you are better than this.")

Thor still begrudges him this.

He still slams doors and makes the house shake, because he knows his dad hates that. He still stomps around, keeps his words short and to the point, never lets a conversation carry on long, keeps it to necessities. 

It's exhausting being angry all the time. 

That's the only reason why he agrees to his father's proposal; go to the summer home, get some time away from this place, so Thor no longer has an empty bedroom across the hall to stare into.

It's a familiar and ever so fatherly method, really. Push the problem away, put it somewhere he doesn't have to look at it, and hope for the best.

His father gives the suggestion over yet another supper spent in silence, ignoring how the table is too small for just the two of them. Thor imagines eating alone, and being alone, no longer wearing the weight of an old fool's stare in the space between his shoulder blades.

It's appealing, and the only downside is that he cannot justify leaving that same night, not when the drive takes three hours.

Their summer home is up in the hills, tucked away in the embrace of fuzzy fir trees. Thor's poor beat up truck- the Blue Bolt, he once called her when she could get above fifty miles per hour without grumbling about how life is so fucking hard- drags up the long winding paths, chugging at the steep inclines. 

Against all odds, good old Bolt safely carries him through, and he promises to leave her be for the day with a fond little pat to the hood. 

Now that he's in the hills, he needs a hoodie just to stand in the shade, and there's plenty of that beneath the trees. The summer air from the roads below brought sweat beading upon his brow, but now he shivers while recovering his rucksack from the Bolt's trunk. 

The cabin itself doesn't provide much reprieve from the chill. It's an old dusty thing, made by his great grandfather's own two hands and it hasn't seen much upkeep in recent times. Thor remembers loving this place as a child, remembers rushing out in nothing but his skin to jump into the freezing river not five minutes away, and getting an earful for tracking mud everywhere when he was inevitably dragged back home by the ear. 

Whether he will love the cabin now, when he's the only body wandering its bare rooms-

(two bedrooms. for four bodies.)

Thor throws his rucksack down in the main living area, between the pair of black faux-leather couches, where he remembers lying in a semi-coma sucking down the fake-sugary goodness of red popsicles- always red- and worse off, the tactile memory of unsticking sweaty thighs from the couch itself. It's late enough in the season, he suspects there won't be much unsticking nor any reason to go out searching for popsicles.

Still; as he flops against the cushions, arm thrown over his head and legs splaying out, he finds himself craving one a nice cherry one right about now.

("you _always_ eat all the cherry, you selfish pri-"

"quit whining, here's the last one. it's all yours."

"you're serious?"

"whatever, we still have grape."

"what do you want for it?"

"nothing, damn, just eat it before i change my mind."

"is this going to come back and bite me in the ass?"

"you're so distrustful. can't i just be nice to you?"

"nope. never. you're the absolute worst."

"i'd argue that's the pot calling the kettle black but i agree, i am the worst. it runs in the family.")

Suddenly, Thor isn't all that hungry for much of anything, let alone popsicles.


	2. dissociation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Thor suddenly has all the time in the world, he doesn't know what to do with himself. 
> 
> He struggles to fill it with anything but thoughts of who else ought to be there with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's weird, a lot of people are split on whether thor would enjoy hunting or fishing- i'm in the 'he'd like the effort but not the part where there's unnecessary death' camp for this particular story but i tend to flip-flop.

Thor stares at a bobbing lure in the shape of a cartoon character- which one is up to him, he supposes, since the face was eroded long ago by the waters and nibbling fish that once dangled from it. 

He never much liked fishing. This rod in his hands was left in the summer home at the back of an otherwise barren storage closet for his father. Thor suspected it would never be used again; he couldn't help but feel a little bad for the wretched old thing. 

So it's his first day out on his own, sitting at five thirty three in the morning because he couldn't sleep in the begrudgingly made bed without his feet hanging off of the end, _fishing_ , because he felt bad for a _fishing rod_ being left without a purpose.

It's better than sitting around staring into space and dissociating for hours at a time. Like, this is still sitting, dissociating, and staring into a slightly prettier space, but, he can pretend he's still technically occupying himself.

The riverside is as he left it that last visit, five or so years back, when his long legs still fit in that bed. Clusters of trees hang over the water, dropping weak branches into the stream when the wind strikes just right. Everything smells like mud and it has Thor taking off his boots, just so he can get his toes in it and feel small again. He's found the sole patch of sunlight in sight, where the trees thin out because someone, maybe even his own father some time ago, took down a nearby tree and left a rotting stump behind. 

If there's a better place to sit and wonder just what the fuck to do with one's time, Thor hasn't found it. 

Fishing is something, he's doing something and it's not with his dad, and that's what matters in the grand scheme of things.

The lure spins in place, catching Thor's faltering attention. He leans in, sees a silvery blue fish mouthing at it, but not taking any true interest in the bait. It's a pretty little thing, like a living jewel. 

Better off, it doesn't mouth off at him and tell him to get over himself. 

"You're the best company I've had in weeks," he says to the tiny thing, and takes a chance in reaching out to run his fingers along its back. The scales are smooth to the touch, for the single second he has to feel them- the fish bolts away, leaving him to sit and stare out into the nothing again.

Fishing soon turns into traipsing through the water, pant legs hitched up to his knees. He is content to chase after fish and watch them flutter through the stream, none too dedicated to escaping his reach. Thor does nothing more than pet when they do stay still; one lazy fish that shines all colors of the rainbow drifts around his hand, turning a figure eight between his pointer and middle fingers.

Suddenly it's noon and Thor doesn't remember where exactly he left the rod, but he can't bring himself to care now. It had one last hurrah and that's all he can bring himself to give it. These scrawny fish wouldn't make for good eating anyway.

Leaving the rod to nature, he steps out of the river, figuring he should maybe not spend the entire day chasing fish like he's half his true age. Taking his boots by the strings, he hefts them up over his shoulder and starts the brief stroll back to the cabin.

It's familiar, this walk, but from a greater height, Thor sees just how desolate their little cabin is. He doesn't understand how his younger self ever struggled to get a moment alone. 

Well, he did have something of a sticky shadow at his side, once upon a time. 

Thor lets himself into the cabin, no key necessary, just left it unlocked- a real testament to how isolated this place is, he thinks, that he wouldn't expect any rogue serial killers to slip in while he's splashing around in the river.

Being away from the water, leaving marks in the exact shape of his bare feet on the wooden floor, Thor finds he’s tired again— and loves that he can just do something about it, no thought to it. No parents scolding him for tracking water everywhere, nobody to force pleasant and unnecessary conversation with. 

No one to share a bed with. 

No one to sit next to him on the couch, running their fingers through his sopping hair. 

No one. 

It’s with a bittersweet confusion that he strips free of his sweatpants and collapses onto the couch, letting sleep grab him by the hand and tug him away from the threat of his own brain. 

x

His second day.

Thor makes lots and lots of iced tea. Just an absurd amount. An amount that would be declared a national monument if anybody bothered to come peeking into the kitchenette's window while holding a record book, and an amount that would have him declared legally insane if that person was carrying a book on basic psychology as well. 

He's not exactly thirsty but it's something to do, and the person who left the ingredients for it isn't exactly around to enjoy them.

A single sip reminds him, he's grown up now, and he's no longer out to turn every single nutrient he places into his system into the epitome of sweet. Too much sugar.

He wonders how his mother ever came to love her tea so sweet when she had dentists for parents.

He wonders if she'd be disappointed to see him pouring out a good deal of his hard work into the sink.

He wonders if she and Loki are hanging out much these days.

He wonders if that's something that even happens when you die, if you really see all the people you lost, or if there's-

(she deserves something. he deserves something.)

Thor starts on another batch.

This one, with maybe a few spoonfuls less of sugar.

Thor carries the tea everywhere that he goes, not because he wants it but because it's a shame to waste it. Keeps it in plastic crinkly bottles, crushes them in his fists and throws them over the back of the couch, or into the backseat of the Bolt, wherever he might be.

He takes errant sips, lets the sweetness roll between his teeth, over his tongue. Keeps the taste with him on his strolls through the trees, following deer tracks, just to see if he can find the deer and catch a glimpse of a skittish fawn. Tastes nothing but sweet when he takes the Bolt out driving through the hills, past dead and dying farms, piles of grey crumbling wood and fences laying on the brown grass. 

It doesn't do much to chase the feeling that this would all be better if the seat next to him wasn't empty.

His father's voice drifts over him; when do you plan to get a girlfriend? Boy handsome as you, should already have the girls crawling all over you. You need a companion, someone to spend your life with.

(the old fool would never understand, thor had that once. he was set. good to go.)

(he'd never understand how after what thor tasted, nothing was going to add up.)

(nothing would ever be as sweet.)

Thor leans against the Bolt. He's parked her at the edge of the road, where construction has cut everything off, and now where there was once a view over the river- god, it winds forever, it just doesn't fucking end- now, there's sand, ugly yellow trucks, grumbling workers that side-eye him while he sits on the hood of his car.

Loki would be livid. He loved coming out to this point to read. Thor remembers being bored, begging Loki to play with him, jumping on him, getting a good right hook to the belly and rolling onto the grass... 

Thor floods his throat full of iced tea. 

Now it needs more sugar.

The drive back to the cabin takes considerably longer now that he's seen this road already. He goes through two bottles, and they both clatter into the backseat, carelessly tossed aside. 

Something- (like a hand like fingers tapping his shoulder like-)

Just taps him from behind- and he nearly swerves off the road and into a pasture of grazing sheep. None of the little bastards so much as lift their heads, they just carry on chewing and staring into space.

He holds a hand over his heart, willing it to slow.

Turning in his seat, he sees, of course, nothing. 

Well, no, he does see there's one bottle now, lying in the footwell- and turning back around, he finds the second one has bounced back into the passenger seat.

Physics defying water bottles.

Right.

He pretends to shrug it off, puts his hands on the wheel and gets back on the road. 

It's been a long day.


End file.
